Lovely Detoxing
by Gypsy Love
Summary: Craig's rehab journal which he writes at the suggestion of the counselor.
1. Chapter 1

And it just pops up, the page so blank…with nothing there except what I put there. If only life could be like that. Ha. Of course it can't, oh well. So here I am at rehab. Rehab, Jesus what a joke. At first it was the lovely detoxing off cocaine. You know it's reached an unacceptable level if detoxing becomes involved. And I thought I could handle it. Just a little. Just one bump. Just a party favor and it wasn't hurting anyone, least of all me. But that wasn't exactly the case now was it? Nope. I ended up hurting everyone. Joey and Manny and Ellie and myself. I had to talk to Joey on the phone today and I heard that, that something in his voice. Like hidden disappointment. Like veiled fear. Joey was good at sounding like he was trying to hide those things…no. I shouldn't be mad at Joey and I'm really not, but for some reason he makes me feel so…so pathetic.

So here I see a psychiatrist and a counselor but the psychiatrist doesn't have much time. It's a meeting a week. They are busy people. There's a lot of crazy in the world. But the psychiatrist, a woman with polished nails and fancy hair and fancy clothes, she suggested that the cocaine use was a form of "self-medicating". Maybe it was. Sure it was. And why would I need to self medicate? She listed off the reasons. Bi-polar. My parents' deaths. My "abuse history". The school shooting. She forgot Manny's abortion but she doesn't know about that. Yet. She will. These people are like vulgeers, they pick at you and tear you apart. And I'm not spelling that word right, that bird that eats dead things, the dumb word processor keeps wanting to spell "vulgar". It's vulgar alright.

But the counselor, also a woman, wants me to write in a journal. She says that doing this is therapuatic. Damn I can't spell that word right either. Screw it. The counselor woman is like one of those aging hippies with long straight hair and no make-up and jeans and stuff. I see her everyday. I think playing music is therapuetic. And I guess snorting cocaine felt therapeutic. That's it, I spelled it right, holy shit! There's hope for me yet. Yeah. When I was doing cocaine it felt better. Like I could do things. Things like going on stage and talking to people and succeeding in the fucked up music business. It was confidence. Now I felt tired and pretty much like shit. This was being better? I didn't get it.

Both the counselor and the psychiatrist say I wasn't dealing with the traumatic events in my life and that they didn't go away even if I pretended that they never happened. Great. One of them said that when my dad was hitting me all the time that I had to pretend then, to survive it in my head. But that now he was dead and no one hit me anymore and that I had to deal with it and not do drugs when I felt bad, or not confident enough, or whatever. So deal with it how, I said. It's over. No, they said. Part of you is still 13 and getting the shit beat out of you for no reason. Like being late and disobeying all the time isn't a reason. She said to write about it.

Okay, my dad. So when my mom left us for Joey that's when things got real bad. I just really never knew what he was going to do, how he was going to be. And things got worse. Like one hit one time was nothing much but then he'd…shit. I really don't want to write about that. And I don't want to write about either of them dying and I don't want to write about being bi-polar or Manny and the baby or any of it.

They say that you get stuck at ages where traumatic things happened, like when my mom died when I was 10. Instead of dealing with being 10 and growing up I was dealing with my mother dying, not dealing with being a 10 year old. And when my dad used to beat me when I was 13 I was dealing with that and not maturing past 13, even when I was 14, 15, ect. And the bi-polar episode when I was 16. So emotionally they figure I'm only about 15, and moving across the country and having a career in music and all that is too much for an emotional 15 year old so I had to find a way to do it, and that leads to the drug use.

Ellie's pretty pissed off at me. I don't blame her. I was awful. Kissing her like that, toying with her emotions. In two days I managed to alienate Manny and Ellie. Manny. I love her. I really do. I've missed her so much and she's so sweet and she has always been better to me than I've been to her. Except the abortion…well. It was her choice but it hurt me so much when she did that. What chance would that kid have had? I can't even take care of myself never mind a baby. But maybe things would have been better with the baby because they would have had to be better. I would have had to get my act together for that daughter or son. And maybe with a baby to focus on I wouldn't have become bi-polar, I would have been stronger than that.

About the bi-polar that stupid psychiatrist says that "child abuse" can cause it, traumatic events before the age of 16. So there. That's fitting. Not only did my father beat me but he made me crazy, too. Thanks dad.

This isn't going so well. It isn't making me feel better. I get so sick of myself and my problems and I just want them to go away. And I don't like being stuck here like a prisoner, trapped in this place. Sometimes I wish Sean hadn't stopped me that day in front of the train, that he'd just let it hit me. Because I was in so much pain then and I'm in so much pain now and it just goes on and on that I think, sometimes, that I had the right idea back then.

Cocaine is a stimulant. And the lack of energy I'm feeling is because the stimulant I was becoming accustomed to has been taken away. So what if it can cause heart attacks? So what? I don't care I just want it. I want it back.

I didn't think my mother would really die. Jesus, I was 10! I thought there would be a cure, and there wasn't. There wasn't anything. And it felt so empty when she died. Things were easier when she was alive, more things seemed to make sense and after she died it was like, if that happened then any terrible thing could happen. What would stop it? What would stop my dad from kicking me so hard that I'd barely be able to breathe the next day? Huh? Nothing. What would stop him from strapping me with that belt so hard that it would hurt to wear a shirt the next day and the next day? Huh? What? Nothing. There was nothing to stop it. And I knew then just like I know now that I am a terrible kid, that I made him mad and that's why those things happened and kept happening.

And when I was in the hospital with the stupid bi-polar I was so out of control that they had to inject the drugs into me with needles and tie me to the bed with these, these leather restraint things and…fuck. I am so messed up it is no wonder…

And Manny, that was my baby, too, it was mine and she, she killed it and I didn't have any say and it was like some part of me was being killed. I knew that whole day, I felt it like a freight train running over me, that day she got the abortion is burned into my memory and it's super bright like a picture that's over exposed.

I stopped taking pictures somewhere along the way. At one point it was all I did. Everything I saw I'd think how it could be a picture. I liked taking pictures because you could make things look the way you wanted them to look. But I just stopped doing it like I'd never even done it.

Joey is coming up for a visit soon, he said. So that's good, I guess. Maybe he'll bring Angie with him, not like I really want her to see me here but she must know by now that I am a fuck up. It isn't exactly a secret. Well, I guess that's about it for the therapeutic journal writing. The counselor will be happy I did it, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

Back to this journal again, can't escape it like I can't escape myself. Oh well. Joey came up to visit me which was good, I guess. I just had a hard time looking him straight in the eye. I had three parents, once. My mom, my dad, and Joey. Now I just have Joey. I used to feel like I just stayed at his house, like I didn't really belong there like Angela did. Sometimes. Most of the time. And I know I was afraid of fucking up too badly like I did with my dad. That's really why I ran away those couple of times.

This place, this rehab place, I feel like a patient here, like I'm sick. I guess I am. Drug addiction is like a sickness. Bi-polar definitely is. No matter what I do I can't get away from it. They bring me my lithium in these little paper medicine cups. Those little pills that keep me from being manic, from being depressed, but they flatten everything out and I don't always like it.

They keep mentioning my dad, the counselor and the psychiatrist. He made me crazy, I said to the psychiatrist, throwing it back at her. No, she said. She said because he beat me that might have triggered the bi-polar or caused it to happen earlier, it might have happened anyway even if my parents were still alive and everything had been fine. Anyway it doesn't matter what caused it, it matters that I have it and have to deal with it.

I like things to have reasons, though. Like with my dad, why did he do it? Why did he keep hitting me like that? Kicking me and punching me and strapping me? Was I that awful of a kid? Part of me thought I was, it was easier to blame myself than to blame him because I loved him. I hated him, too. I know I did. I hated him and feared him and I wished more than once that he would go away. Well, I guess I got my wish.

That night, the last night I saw him, I chose Joey over him. If I'd agreed to go back with him maybe…but no. Nothing would have changed, not really. He was still stressed out at work, he was still mad that mom left him, and I still would have been the target, despite the anger management. And then if I'd become bi-polar and I lived with him? I can't imagine what he would have done.

The problem with my dad is that I'm still angry at him. All those years and I never had friends over the house, I wouldn't dare. Hiding all those bruises all the time, pretending things were fine. And that kind of pretending is damaging because I wasn't just trying to make other people think everything was fine, I was trying to make myself think it, too. Self-deception. That's worse. It's worse because after a while I didn't really know what was true.

I just don't know how to become not angry with him. Forgiveness is hard. At certain points when I lived with him, after mom left, after he'd beaten me and I was just curled up somewhere crying and hating him, that anger was all I had and it felt good, in a way. It felt good to be angry at him because, well, it was something he couldn't take away.

I wish I hadn't pissed off Manny and Ellie like that. They deserted me, both of them, but who can blame them? But the cocaine was more important to me, that rush of confidence, I needed that more than I needed them.

This writing like this is hard, it's hard explaining all of these things and thinking about these things. What good is it doing? It's all self-pity. Oh poor little Craig who's bi-polar and his father beat him and his mother died and fuck. Just fuck. I don't know anymore what to say about it or what to think about it or anything. And I still want to do cocaine, there's some saying like a person doesn't get sober when they're still having fun being drunk. I was still having fun, I guess. All those adrenaline rushes. Being on stage, being high, being with girls, losing myself in everything I was doing so I didn't have to think about myself. And now I'm here because Ellie, Ellie had to force it, she had to call Joey even though I begged her not to, she still did it.

I can't be mad at Ellie. She's sweet, too, like Manny, and she called Joey because, because she was worried. But just one stupid bloody nose, that's all it was, it wasn't like I O.D.ed or anything. I knew all along that Ellie liked me, ever since that summer we hung out after Ashley left. I can tell. She looked at me when she thought I wasn't looking or wasn't noticing. She laughed a lot. She flirted in her own way. I pretended not to know, not to realize it because I was still in love with Ashley.

Shit, Ashley. There's a girl I haven't thought about in a while. We had more in common than I had with Manny. Ashley wasn't so easy to get, not like Manny with her love sick eyes. I remember when I first met her in the library with Emma. Yeah, I thought she was cute. But she looked at me like I was a movie star or something and I kind of liked that but I kind of didn't. Ashley never did that. I always had to meet Ashley halfway. So when Ashley left for England because of me, that was so fucking hard.

Life is so fucking hard. It's like you come into the world pretty much fine but then all these things happen to screw you up. It always seems like I can handle things at first. Like Manny, say. In the library with Emma, she was in eighth grade. And Emma introduces us and she says, "Oh, hi," in this funny star struck little voice. Then we went to the mall and that carnival and she was just a kid, I realized. I mean, I was only 11 months older but she was so much like a little kid that I couldn't handle it, all the talking and giggling and everything. But at that point I was fine, I broke things off with her and that was that. Except it wasn't. By the next year she was all sexy and flirting with me every chance she got and I was just drawn to her, and we danced at that rave, the music pulsing around us and I could feel her skin under her clothes. And Ashley dumps me at that party for Paige and Manny was right there to pick up the pieces. And the next thing I know she's pregnant and getting an abortion and I'm devastated, can't breathe around the sorrow destroyed. How did it go from her little, "Oh, hi," in the library to the day she got the abortion?

That's not the only thing like that. Ashley was pretty much the same. She was just this cool girl with the gothic clothes in a couple of my classes. I liked talking to her. I liked being near her. And we went to the dance at the end of ninth grade and we dated in 10th grade and Manny came between us. Then 11th grade and it was nuclear. I wanted to marry her. Marry her! In 11th grade, what the hell was I thinking? But I wanted it, I wanted that so much and it seemed so right. It seemed like marrying her could somehow solve my problems, solve my life. Jimmy looked at me like I was on drugs when I told him. No drugs then. Not yet. That was the bi-polar. But not all of it. It was me, too. It was my idea. I hated that when Joey would say, "Craig, it's the bi-polar acting up," like he said at that shelter when he came to pick me up. Oh that was good, too. Got the shit kicked out of me and my guitar stolen and Ashley had left the country to get away from me. That really worked out well.

Jimmy got shot in between Manny's abortion and the first manic episode I had. I was sick that day, I only went to school feeling like shit because Joey was on my nerves. I was tired and achy and I had a fever. Then I round the corner in the hallway and there's Jimmy laying on the floor in this slowly spreading circle of blood. So much blood like that looks weird, it doesn't look real. I thought he was dead.

Pretty soon I have to go meet with the counselor. We sit in her office and she has all these strange little nick nack things and plants all around. It's kind of nice, those things, nice to look at when I don't want to think about what she's saying. All those questions. All whys and hows and how did you feel when this happened and when that happened. Doing cocaine was nice, I didn't have to feel bad for once.

I guess I'm not anywhere near being ready to kick this cocaine thing. I'd go back to it in a minute.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm in a bad mood. Right now I'm really angry with Ellie because I don't want to be here. I don't care if she loves me, or likes me or whatever. I was fine. Fine. I felt good for once. Now how do I feel? Tired. Irritable. Fucking depressed. And what is it? Is it a depression from the bi-polar or the cocaine withdrawal or is it both? The fun just never ends.

Then in the counselor's office, while I was staring at this stupid plant with thick waxy leaves she said something, something about my father. Again. Something about him being dead so it was impossible to please him, which this part of me wanted, she said. And what pisses me off is that I started to cry and you bet your ass these counselors like that, they love it. It's a breakthrough. Except it wasn't. It was just more of the same sorry old shit and what is crying about him going to accomplish?

I'm negative, I know. I'm being negative. But I'm so fucking bored here. The only thing to do is watch T.V. and eat. I have no energy to play my guitar. No energy to do anything. So that's what I'm doing. I'm just sitting around, going to all these groups and trying not to think about anything that they are saying.

It isn't Ellie's fault that I'm fucked up. That's my own fault, and some circumstances out of my control, like my mother dying. It's not Ellie's fault that I was doing cocaine, and I know that it wasn't good but it felt good. It felt damn good.

There's only so many things to write about in this stupid thing. The weather right now is kind of like my mood, it's a thunderstorm and there's burst of rain, torrential downpours. Since I'm in such a bad mood maybe I'll write about all my worst memories, that seems like a cheery thing to do. The first one is when my mom left us, not when she died but when she moved out. I was at school when she left and I came home to an empty house. I had no clue she left. I didn't realize at that point that things were, let's say, dysfunctional at my house. How in the hell would I know that? Because it wasn't like T.V. shows? No, because T.V. wasn't real. Because it wasn't like that at other people's houses? No. I just assumed that when my friends got whipped or hit or punched or thrown against a fucking wall that it happened when no one was around, like it happened with me. And didn't all parents fight like that, starting with the low words, then louder and faster, then screaming, then my mother dissolving into tears and my father hitting her? Wasn't that what went on everywhere? I thought it was.

So one day I come home and she's gone. Then my dad comes home and he realizes it, he knew she left. And he didn't do anything, he didn't say anything. He hardly moved from the kitchen table. He poured himself a shot of some whiskey and just sat there. And I was so scared, it was this huge scared-ness, too huge to articulate, to even think about. But I didn't have to think about it, it was all around me.

Now let's talk about my first serious beating. Are we having fun yet? When my mother still lived with us my father had whipped me and spanked me and hit me but it was…it wasn't as serious. The abuse thing is a matter of degree. The degree when my mother lived with us was much less than after. So the first real serious I thought he might kill me beating happened when I was 12. I had done something, all these incidents with him were usually preceded by something I had done that made him angry. Except I have trouble remembering what it was I did. And I have trouble remembering the details of a lot of the beatings. The psychiatrist has a name for this, 'selective amnesia' or 'disassociation', something like that. But that first real bad one I remember pretty well. It was just past supper time and I was in the living room and then he mentioned the thing I did, or didn't do, and I tried to apologize but he kept cutting me off. And he was so angry, and I think now a lot of that anger had to do with my mom leaving and his job and worrying about raising me pretty much alone and with him working a lot but then it seemed like all it had to do with was the thing I had done. It was my fault that he was so mad. And I was frightened. Really frightened, because his eyes were scaring me, this blankness in them, and I had hated him before but the hate kind of turned, it became almost necessary, in a way. And he came at me and there was no where to go and I was backed up against the wall and he grabbed my wrists and shoved me back, all the time sort of yelling about the thing he was mad about and he shoved me to the floor and kicked me and punched me until I thought I was going to pass out and then I thought, 'he's gonna kill me,'

Jesus, is this depressing. That's all I have the stomach for, just those two worst memories. It's draining, remembering that stuff. When I wrote that just now it wasn't just writing it, it was a little like reliving it. I felt him grabbing my wrists like that again, I could feel it.

When I kissed Ellie it was intense, it seemed to me, because of the coke and I was about to go onstage and she was sort of threatening me with telling Joey about everything but when she said that thing like, "you know, so don't make me say it," and I saw that look in her eyes and I kissed her, that moment was cool. Like it held all the possibilities of what could happen, what we could be to each other somehow. Of course I had to go and ruin it by saying to her not to tell Joey.

I had a nightmare when I first got here. I felt like I hadn't slept in months, I'd been off my meds for awhile. Then I get to this place with nothing to do and my lithium hand delivered to me and the first night here I had the nightmare. They never sound as scary described, it was just this feeling of dread and every image in that dream was disturbing.

I was going to write about all my worst memories but I stopped after those two because the next one is my mom dying and I can't deal with that right now, I don't want to think about it and write about it and relive it. I was sort of surprised by how much it bothered me to write about the first two things. Shit. I read this thing once where some writer said that writing was easy, it was like opening up an artery and bleeding all over the page. That's what it felt like to write about my mom leaving and that first beating.

I'm so tired now. Fatigue. The only thing to look forward to here is eating, and the food isn't that great. I wish someone would visit me. Like Ellie or Manny and I could make-up with them and see in their eyes that they still love me. But neither of them has so much as called. I think I might be out of their lives for good. It was fine for high school, all the angst -y drama and everything but now it's time to move on, that might be what they're thinking. And Jimmy, god, I visited him practically everyday when he was in the hospital and then that rehab place. But he's gone, too. High school is just this funny time when you hang out with your friend and you think that those friendships mean something but they don't, not really. Because when high school is done most of them just blow away, like those dandelion puff ball things.

They have this book hanging around here called, "Girl Interrupted" and I know it was a movie awhile back but the book is way better. It's about this girl who ended up in a psych ward in the 60's. I'm the fucking boy interrupted. The psych ward. This rehab place. It only happened to the girl in the book once, one psych ward for like half a year. Back then they kept people longer. This is twice for me. Maybe this is the pattern. Probably the bi-polar will "act up" like Joey says, and I'll end up in another psych ward somewhere, maybe with worse symptoms. Maybe with psychosis and delusions, which some people with bi-polar can have, I read on the damn internet. Or maybe I'll try some other drug like heroin or alcohol and end up in some place like this again for that. It's undeniable, I have a bright future ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

My mother died when I was 10. She'd been sick, cancer, but she kind of down played it. She didn't want me to worry, but I did worry. I was 10 and my fucking world was coming apart.

There's a look when people die of cancer. The chemo and the radiation and the medication, it causes people to look sort of concentration campish. Forced feedings, packed calorie drinks, and their stomachs are bloated while their legs and arms wither away. Cancer isn't pretty like it sometimes is on T.V. Everything is kind of pretty on T.V.

My dad knew she was dying, too, of course. He was a fucking doctor. So he knew and he dealt with it in his odd, quiet way. I dealt with it by basically losing my mind.

This was my mother. My mother, the most important person in my life and I was 10, still so young. I needed her. I still needed her but she was going. I could see it. She probably weighed as much as me, and Joey looked all haggard, lugging Angela back and forth to the hospital so mom could see her. He had her big diaper bag and his suits on because he came right from the car lot. My dad never went to see her, but he let me. And he never talked about her, never said one word, and I fucking hated him for that.

School wasn't really going well at that time. I couldn't concentrate. A lot of times Joey would pick me up, bring me to the hospital with him and Ang. And I was so jealous of Angie because she wasn't really getting this, she didn't know her mom was going to die, and maybe Joey'd end up marrying someone else and she'd have a new mom.

The hospital room smelled so weird, so bad, like alcohol and medicine and Lysol and puke and shit and cancer and death. My mother was so pale, lying against the white pillow case under the white blankets, her skin as pale as paper. Her dark hair had become much thinner, straighter. I'd stumble into the room, kind of scared of her, scared of the dying, scared of what my life would be like without her.

"Mom?" I'd say, to see if she was awake, alive. Slowly she'd open her eyes.

"Craig," she'd say, and motion me over to her. I'd go on the bed, feel her weak skinny arms around me, and wish like crazy that things were different. I wished she was better, I wished my parents were still married, I wished my dad was nice all the time.

That was funny time, too. Just us in the hospital room, the dumb print of some painting on the wall making me almost physically sick. The afternoon light kind of hanging in the room, hanging outside the room, the quality of it changing imperceptibly.

One morning, eating my cereal, my school bag all packed and sitting by the door, my dad looked at me all weird. He was in his suit and tie for work, his eyes obscured behind his glasses. I saw the reflection of the kitchen in his glasses.

"Craig," he said, so serious, so quiet and steady. I'd never heard him say anything exactly that way and I knew. I knew what he was about to tell me.

"Craig, your mother died last night,"

It was so unreal. It was so unbelievable. It didn't make sense, but it wasn't just her death that didn't make sense. Nothing did anymore. The kitchen. My dad's suit. My schoolbag all packed with books and pencils. For what? What did anything matter now?

My dad just looked at me, letting it sink in as much as it was going to. It's still sinking in, I guess. And I thought he must do this at work, tell people their parent, kid, sister, brother, whoever, that they had died. I bet he told them just how he told me. I'll just bet he did.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, it's not perfect. They say it doesn't have to be, that it's only a journal for me. Fine. What I've been thinking about lately is writing songs. I guess things along the craving coke lines have got better. I don't want to do it so much anymore. I'd probably still do it, but not like before. Not like choosing drugs over Manny and Ellie, bleeding onstage. Not like that. And the meds are kicking in and I feel better, less manic. My thoughts aren't piling on top of each other anymore. So yeah, I want to write songs. Get a CD together, maybe release it when I get out.

It gives me something to do, to break up the boredom here. And I'm getting into it again, like I used to in high school, before the whole "stardom" bullshit thing got in the way. It isn't about that, not really. You never know what people will like, and it isn't really about them. I have to do it for myself and if other people like the songs than all the better, but if not it doesn't matter because it wasn't for them anyway.

I've been thinking about that and thinking about how I really truly fucked things up with Manny. For good this time, maybe. It seemed like she'd always be around. Not anymore. I haven't heard from her. And we're not kids anymore. The stakes are different. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we had that kid. God, that kid would be like two and a half. That's so young. Maude. Oh well. Can't change it.

And Ellie. My sweet friend, but I blew that. Jesus, did I burn some bridges. Maybe they'll forgive me because I was a hopeless drug addict. But Ellie, I don't know. I hurt her too badly. The look in her eyes at the airport, the way the tears just rolled down her cheeks because of me. I did that. I caused her that pain because I am thoughtless and selfish.

It would have been better if I didn't do that, if I could have just self destructed without dragging them along. They've written me off, I know it. I can't go back begging for forgiveness because they'll laugh in my face. Maybe someday, some day down the line, things can get better. Or we'll just move on. It's sad, it's hard to let go but I guess it's time to. Move on. Leave adolescence behind.

The only thing left is music. It helps me, I know it's a bit of an obsession but it isn't harmful, it isn't like crack or heroin or being in love. And speaking of love, there's someone else I've been thinking of lately. Ashley.

Ashley is gone. She was gone the second she got in the car to drive to the airport to go to England. She couldn't take it, the bipolar being so new then like some fresh wound, and I know she was always watching my moods and my reactions and she was watching what she said. I know that because she told me. So it was all lies, when she said she wasn't going anywhere in the hospital, laying down on the same pillow with me, our noses nearly touching. Jesus, she was practically the only thing that got me through that time. I was crazy. Bipolar meant crazy. I felt so broken, so damaged, so unlovable. But Ashley said she would stay. She said she loved me and maybe she did then and I tried to do everything right then. I took the medicine. I went to see the shrinks and the doctors and everything I was supposed to do. I just didn't want the world to know that I was a fucking lunatic.

Ashley is really gone. She's dating Jimmy. I mean, Jimmy. Jimmy had always had a thing for her, I knew that. I remember when they were dating in ninth grade, during Ashley's whole goth thing that he hated but that I liked. I hadn't known her before, the goody goody school queen thing she had going. And she was trying to take a picture of herself by her locker and not quite getting it. I took pictures all the time then. Funny how the interests fade. And I took a picture of her then and Jimmy walked by and he looked kind of pissed, even though I was only taking a picture of her.

So I can't do anything about that, they're back together and that's great, it's really great. I'm glad they're happy and all but I, this tiny part of me is still in love with Ashley.


End file.
